Xlendi Harbor

July nights were quiet and balmy. The harbor was still and few boats anchored. The dozen or so cafes along the promenade always had empty tables. Unhurried waiters stopped to chat. During the slow evenings friends stopped by our table to say hello, maybe joined us for a drink and conversation. We watched the ghostly underwater lights of the scuba divers as they searched back and forth across the harbor bottom. All was easy, quiet, relaxed.

Then August arrived.

It’s ten pm and the dinner hour is in full swing. It’s August hot, humid, sultry. Boats are rafted together across the width of the harbor. Every table in every café and restaurant along the waterfront is filled. The waiters are running hard, harried and sweating. Enticing scents come from passing dishes, lobsters, fish, pasta and pizza. Looks of longing from hungry people, hovering, waiting in line, hoping for a table. If you want a drink, you go to a bar in a side street. Here it’s time to eat. We’re at a table with friends, finished dinner and thinking about a pastis. Even with the crowd no one rushes you.

A half dozen chi chi Italians disembark from a million dollar cigarette boat tied up at the wharf – all of them tanned and oiled, designer clothing, bejeweled women, anchor chain sized gold watches, bracelets and neck chains on the men. The boaties push to the front of the line and demand a table immediately. The host tells them they must wait like everyone else. Much muttering and complaining in Italian, waving of arms. The host holds firm. The pretty people take their jewelry and attitudes inside to the hotel dinning room.

The crowd squeezes past, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip: lemon colored shorts, an orange blouse, a sunflower and cornflower printed sun dress, a turquoise silk skirt, mustard sandals sequined and glittering, diving instructors in faded red logo t-shirts, even on this hot night jeans of all shades, every imaginable garment for harem pants to knickers in pink, rose, bright green, ivy green, indigo, cerise, a kaleidoscope of color. A babble of language: French, Italian, Russian, Maltese, German, Hebrew, English, Arabic.

An older man, deeply tanned with a gold Rolex, wearing yellow shorts and a black shirt, tattoos on his upper arms, orders two muscular young men with shaved heads to move their big motorcycles from the walkway. They duck their heads and comply. A beauty with hair the color of harbor water at midnight, olive skin and almond eyes swings by our table wearing a loose black linen dress with spaghetti straps and the kind of pumps that have a rude name. Man at a table watching her misses his mouth and stabs his cheek with his fork. A stork legged girl in tight-tight jeans stilts along in skyscraper platforms with spike heels, looking over her shoulder to see if the boys are watching.  When she sees they are not, she waves, calls out, ‘Ciao Carlo,’ pouting a little. Carlo runs to catch her.

Fragment of conversation from two women at the table behind me, brightly dressed women with good jewelry and expensive watches, the kind of women who wear make up at the beach:

‘You need to get a husband.’

‘I did get one.’

‘I didn’t mean mine, although you can keep him.’

‘Have two at the moment, quite enough. Don’t really want either of them. You can have yours back luv.’

A family wanders by: grandma and grandpa, mom and dad, a quiet boy about ten, a skinny girl couple of years younger than her brother – everyone tanned and happy and licking gelati cones. Two sleek men in matching outfits and holding hands stroll to a posted menu and carefully appraise it. A gaggle of French teenagers flutter past. Three giggling girls throw ice at a boy sitting on the stone breakwater. Next to our table century old and deeply worn stone steps lead to the sea, and seal sleek divers slip into oil smooth water. Groups coalesce. The noise and heat level rises. Plans for clubbing are being made.

Our waitress arrives with a tray. A sharp featured girl with a narrow face and moon colored skin, pale eyes and hair. She places the glass on the table, carefully lifts a dripping pitcher in her long slender hand and pours ice water slowly, milky clouds of Pernod rise.

A very large, very hairy man in a tank top at a table filled with other Russians gestures to the waiter, ‘More vodka,’ and lights another cigarette. Two German ladies we met while walking wave hello, sandals, sensible print dresses. A young girl, maybe nine, soaking wet swim suit and hair, runs to her parent’s table climbs the wall, shrieks and jumps into the water. A scamper of small children play on the beach, throwing sand at one other. Grandmothers and old men with baggy shorts, big bellies and leather sandals line the benches along the sidewalk where it runs down and into the water.

The nightly movie begins, lighting up the wall where it’s projected – Cinema Paradiso. Music up, heads turn.

The other movie, the one running all around us, continues.